


The Answer You Weren't Looking For

by TheDarknessFactor



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2890493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarknessFactor/pseuds/TheDarknessFactor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha Romanoff seems a bit overqualified to be the person that’s helping him recuperate from the ice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Answer You Weren't Looking For

**Author's Note:**

> Ooookay... so this monster of a fic was written for redherring7 over on Tumblr, as part of the Romanogers Secret Santa. My inability to write short stories led to this being 12K. Oops.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It’s a deep-seated ache in his bones, vibrating through his fingertips.

His awareness grows, like he’s coming up through water. He tries to gasp, but his lungs won’t obey him and expand. In some ways that’s a blessing, because he’s half-expecting water to rush in and drag him back down again, but it doesn’t. There are dim sounds around him, sometimes a clatter, sometimes— voices? He’s not sure. He tries to call out to them, but his voice box is another instrument that won’t listen to instructions.

Eventually, the ache resolves itself into what he realizes is cold. Then the cold mercifully starts to recede, warmth seeping into him bit by bit. The noises become clearer. He takes a deep breath, and this time he can feel his chest rise and fall, no longer constricted by whatever held him in place before. He remembers that he has eyes (those things that let him see, oh yeah, he forgot about those), and after a moment of struggle he opens them.

_“There’s not enough time.”_

The contrast between his current surroundings and his last known location could not be greater: instead of a cramped cockpit with ice and the Atlantic closing in (he still feels like he’s rushing towards the water), he’s in a spacious room. The walls are a light blue, and he looks down to see a syringe protruding from his arm. If he follows the line, it leads to a pack of fluids hanging from a silver instrument. There are several unfamiliar machines, producing the beeping noises that he thought he was hearing earlier.

It’s unnerving. Not bad. Just… unnerving.

Movement out of the corner of his eyes startles him; there is a rough scraping sound that he realizes a moment later was a page turn, and he finds himself staring at the one thing in the clean, empty room that seems out of place.

(Not a thing. A person.)

The woman has hair like blood, cropped close to her shoulders. She doesn’t appear to be paying him any attention.

“Morning, Captain,” she says.

Green eyes dart up from the pages to fixate on him, and he has to look away from her stare. There are a million questions buzzing around in his head, like flies buzzing around a corpse: where is he? Where is everyone else? Did Peggy make it out okay? Did they win the battle? Did they stop Hydra? The red-haired woman is unfamiliar, but she’s wearing tight-fitting pants and a loose-fitting jacket. She looks completely relaxed. Like waiting for super soldiers to wake up happens every other day.

She knows who he is.

 _Probably captured,_ he thinks, resigned. He doesn’t reply to her greeting. He stares straight ahead, but in his peripheral vision he’s checking her for weapons— assessing, trying to get a sense of why she’s the one who’s waiting in his room for him to regain consciousness. Reading a book. Reading… Les Miserables? The French version, apparently. Her accent is flawless American, in spite of that.

Still, he’s fast. Most likely he’s faster than her.

“It’s going to take you less than a second to rip out the IV,” the woman says, looking back down at her book. “Which is a dumb thing to do, but I won’t explain why. It’ll take you approximately three seconds to make it to the door, which is unlocked, by the way. It would take me two seconds to response to any sudden movement on your part and take you down. But I won’t, if you want to go. I can’t guarantee that no one else won’t stop you, but I won’t. You’ve got my word on that.”

Is she…? After everything he’s seen, it wouldn’t surprise him.

“Hydra’s hiring psychics now, huh?”

The woman snorts, not even trying to hide it.

“You know what?” she says, standing and closing her book, tucking it under her arm. “I’ve got my orders, but I also have a high enough clearance that I can ignore them. You up for a bit of a walk, Captain?”

Steve eyes her, unable to stop himself from feeling nervous as she approaches (stalks toward him, more like) and carefully removes the IV (another question to add) from his arm. He gets to his feet slowly, unsure how much freedom of movement his body will allow after… whatever happened to him. He thinks about the cold, and the ache, and the flashes and how he couldn’t breathe, and has to focus on each step to keep those things from overtaking him.

The woman walks just in front of him, out of reach. They enter a hallway which is even barer than the room they’d just left, with pristine periwinkle walls and tiled floors and a smell of antiseptic. Steve stares openly as two people wearing suits narrow their eyes at them, but they both look away when the woman makes eye contact with each of them. He continues to follow her, noting that her hips sway without any apparent effort, and that her stride oozes confidence and authority.

_“Don’t you dare be late.”_

Where’s Peggy?

“Back door,” the woman announces. “Don’t need the general public gawking.”

There’s nothing to indicate that it leads outside, apart from the blaring red ‘Exit’ sign above it. The woman leads the way again, and Steve is momentarily blinded as he steps through the door.

His first thought is New York— but it’s not. It can’t be. Except that it is.

“My boss wanted to ease you into it all gently,” the woman says, as they start to walk down the sidewalk. There’s a strange buzzing in his head.

“Huh,” is all he can reply.

“I told him that I didn’t think Captain America would be willing to swallow any bullshit.” The woman stops walking, neatly sidestepping a laughing couple that wanders by. One of the many, many passers-by who are crowding the sidewalk with them. The woman studies him with her x-ray gaze again, making him want to fidget. “But you’re not taking this well, are you?”

“I’m fine,” Steve says. He starts walking again, because if he stands still for too long—

The woman doesn’t call him out on his lie, and falls into step beside him. He takes it all in— the flashy screens, the people everywhere, the sleek, shiny cars that rush by, so far apart from the clunky counterparts that he’s familiar with. He knows what this means. He isn’t going to acknowledge because _no, no, it can’t be, I can’t be alive now, only for this to happen._

“Congratulations,” says the woman, her tone dry. “You’re 93.”

93? He runs through the calculations in his head.

“2012,” he says eventually. “The second millennium. We got that far, huh?”

“Humanity is stubborn,” the woman says. “Anything in particular you’d like to see before those two agents tattle on me and I get an angry, get-your-ass-back-here phone call?”

He suddenly can’t breathe. He manages to gulp in air before saying tightly, “Let’s just keep walking for a bit. Okay? Sorry if I get you in trouble with your boss.”

“ _I_ get myself in trouble with my boss,” corrects the woman. “Frequently. He doesn’t mind.”

“You just said he’s going to cuss you out.”

“I’m already on probation. There isn’t much more he can do at this point. And technically he left all decisions regarding your care up to me, even though really your attending physicians and psychiatrics are supposed to make those calls. But I figured that the sooner you understood the depth of your situation, the better.”

Steve figures that he would’ve had this reaction no matter when the truth was revealed to him, so he says nothing.

“I had a date, you know,” he says eventually.

Something passes over the woman’s face for a very brief moment, but it’s gone before he can really notice and identify it. “She pretty? Or was it a he? I don’t judge.”

“She’s—“ Beautiful. Amazing. Strong. Terrifying. Brave. Kind. The best woman he’s ever known. Going to teach him how to dance. Crying. She was crying.

“Gone,” is what he says. “Most likely.”

The woman nods. She doesn’t offer any pity. Steve can appreciate that.

There’s a shrill noise, and the woman pulls a device out of her pocket (Steve presumes it’s the ‘phone’ she mentioned earlier), holding it up to her ear and moving a few steps away from Steve, talking in a low voice. He moves over to the curb, staring out over the street, at the people who barely glance at him before they move on with their lives. He tries to superimpose what he knows of New York City over it, and he can sort of see it, but there’s something missing. Something isn’t the same.

 _Of course it isn’t the same,_ he berates himself. _You’re in another century, there’s bound to be some changes._

“Sorry,” the woman sighs. “We’ve gotta head back. The building you’re staying in is called the Treehouse, for future reference. You’ll be monitored there for a few days, just to make sure that your recovery is complete, and then you’ll be moved to a standard issue apartment. All expenses will be covered, so don’t worry about finding a job or anything.”

“Can I ask a question?”

The woman smirks. “I won’t guarantee an answer, but sure.”

“The war? Did we win?”

The smirk, playful only a moment ago, turns wry. Her eyes seem to shine more vibrantly than before, and yet the age in them astounds him for a moment. She can’t be more than thirty, but she doesn’t look like she could possibly be that young, either.

“Which one?” she asks.

***

Fury isn’t happy. But then, he’s never happy.

“Before you say anything,” he snaps, “I already know what idiot excuse you have for disobeying orders. And yeah, I know there’s nothing I can do about it. But you are going to be sitting through my disapproving stare for the next four hours, Romanoff.”

Natasha considers yawning. Decides it probably won’t help her in this situation.

Fury turns to look at the Captain. “I’m sorry, Captain Rogers. We were hoping to reduce the shock factor at least a little, but some people have to insist that they know better than psychologists who actually have Ph.Ds. I’m Nick Fury. I’m the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

They shake hands. Natasha keeps her gaze on Fury; he returns it with a glare, but she’s unfazed by it. There are worse things than the disapproval of a Cyclops who happens to be the head of the world’s top security organization. She moves to stand in the corner of the room while Fury brings Rogers up to speed on what S.H.I.E.L.D. is, what its founders set out to do. She notices that he doesn’t tell the Captain exactly who S.H.I.E.L.D.’s founder is.

She fixates her gaze on Fury again. He ignores her this time. Rogers, on the other hand, looks at her curiously. Natasha backs down and settles in for a long afternoon. She’s sure that Rogers has a million and one questions, and Fury’s just invited him to ask as many as he wants.

“Agent Romanoff,” Fury says. “Just what _has_ Rogers been brought up to speed on?”

“He knows it’s 2012. I didn’t provide any details.”

“And why not?”

“He didn’t ask.” He’d been a little preoccupied at the time. Natasha noticed. She notices everything, including the way Steve has had to stop himself from hyperventilating three times now. She thinks about his effects that they’re keeping in a storage locker, and wonders if returning them to him would be at all beneficial. For her, sentimentality is usually a negative, a distraction. For Rogers… well, it’ll either help him cope, or it’ll just reopen his wounds.

The Captain starts rattling off questions— calmly at first, but he gets twitchier and rushes his wording as time passes. Natasha listens, and files away useful information when it’s necessary, and carefully watches for signs of an anxiety attack. He’s close, but he doesn’t get hit with one, so he’s doing better than before. He listens intently to everything that Fury tells him, drinking it all in, apparently having no trouble absorbing the slew of information being thrown at him. No, his problem is mustering the will to believe it.

Three hours pass this way, hours that Natasha doesn’t notice. She doubts they’ve even begun to satisfy Rogers’ need for answers, but it’s getting late, and she’s due to escort him to his (temporary) apartment any minute now. Fury makes eye contact with her; she raises an eyebrow at him, prompting him to hold up his hand and stop Rogers, whose mouth has opened to ask another question.

“Just one more, Captain,” he says. Unlike Rogers, his tone has been measured during the entire exchange. “Then we’ll have to adjourn for today.”

Steve hesitates, then nods. Natasha sees how much he wants to argue, but she also catalogues the fact that he is swaying on his feet and the shadows on his face are more profound— signs that he’s suffering from severe fatigue, and that hunger must have kicked in by now.

“What’s _your_ name?” he asks, looking at her. There’s no suspicion or hostility in his words, just curiosity. But Natasha feels her defensive instinct rear its head, forcing her to tamp it down before she can answer his question in the same tone Fury’s been using.

“Natasha Romanoff.”

His lips quirk up in a wry smile. “That your real name?”

She smirks. It’s probably the closest thing to a genuine smile she’ll give. For now.

Fury dismisses her, and then she’s escorting him to a temporary apartment that’s attached to the facility. Natasha explains to Steve that they want him under observation for a few more days, just so that they can be sure that he won’t suffer from any lingering effects of being a Popsicle for 70 years. She notes the look of distaste that crosses his face when she says ‘under observation’. She understands that he doesn’t like the idea of being a lab rat (it’s the automatic response of someone who has already been in that situation, and one she can relate to).

“One other thing,” she adds. “Fury’s arranged a kind of co-habitation situation for the two of us. So if you’re not comfortable living in the same space as a woman…”

“So you’re my babysitter,” Steve deadpans.

“More like your 21st century adjustment helper monkey.”

He huffs out a laugh at the title. “Could be worse, I guess. If I may say so, ma’am… you seem pretty capable. Aren’t there other assignments you could be on?”

“Natasha,” she corrects. “I’m not really a ‘ma’am’. And yeah, probably. Like I said, I’m sort of on probation right now.”

Steve blinks at her, but he doesn’t ask her to elaborate on what she means. He does, however, retreat in on himself the rest of the way, and it occurs to Natasha that he thinks that she thinks of him as a burden— which she doesn’t. As a matter of fact, she’s a bit intrigued. He’s a good guy, but he’s a bit more jaded than she was expecting (Coulson will be thrilled), and he’s not lacking in his sense of humor.

There are ways to assure him that she doesn’t think of him as just an assignment. She doesn’t think he’s quite ready for flirting territory, even though it’s tempting to see what his reaction would be. An open, friendly reassurance would fall flat coming from her, especially after her response to him questioning her name earlier. Physical contact? Also probably not ready; she could see him flinching out of the way. Natasha wants to establish a foundation for their relationship the right way, since Fury’s warned her that she’s going to be spending a lot of time with him.

In the end, it’s not until after she gives a brief tour of his living quarters, and then points out her adjacent bedroom.

“You ever have any pressing questions, or need anything, or want any resources that the 21st century can provide, just knock. Three in the morning, and you want a cup of tea for no reason? That’s fine too. Just make sure you share, and if you don’t like jasmine then I can’t be your friend.”

Her light teasing works; Steve relaxes a fraction. “Never tried it,” he admits.

Outwardly, Natasha gapes; inwardly, she considers whether or not jasmine tea was a thing in the 40s. Even if it was, she doubts Rogers had much of an opportunity to try it.

“Well, I know what I’m buying the next time I go to the store,” she mutters.

She can’t cook, but S.H.I.E.L.D.’s hired a chef that specializes in food that will be rich in protein without upsetting Steve’s stomach, which is probably still a little shaky. They eat without really saying anything, Natasha used to the bland but filling meal. She can see Steve’s brain going at a mile a minute, but even with her invitation for him to ask questions, he stays quiet except to ask her the chef’s name. Natasha goes through her mental list of everyone in the building, and replies, “Victoria. I think.”

He nods.

After the meal, Natasha retreats to her room and her laptop, filling out her first log on the Captain’s recovery. She’s careful to omit any personal opinions. Fury warned her about that before he brought her on. As a result, her report is short and succinct, and she ends it with recommendations regarding psychiatric treatment and physical recovery. Ultimately it will be up to the actual physicians and therapists he sees, but her stance will at least be noted.

Steve must have retreated to his own room by the time she emerges, turning on the TV and flipping through channels. She keeps the volume low, but his hearing is beyond most humans, and his curiosity draws him out of the room. He stops and raises both eyebrows.

“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised that television is a regular thing now,” he says. “Or that it looks that much better.”

“It regularly melts the brains of three-quarters of the population,” Natasha replies.

He gives her a side glance that says he’s not sure if she’s joking or not.

“It’s pretty late,” he notes.

“So go to bed.”

He has more of an excuse than her, and she knows it. Sleeping will help him recover from the ice more quickly, but Natasha can understand his desire to stay awake. He’s already missed so much, and has no desire to miss anymore.

Natasha just doesn’t want to sleep. Sleeping is a chore. It’s not enjoyable for her.

“You really meant the tea at three in the morning, didn’t you?” he asks.

“More of my habit than anything else.” She shrugs. “But any time of day or night, really. Anyway, you can sit down, you know. I know that the couch has no personality— like all the other furniture in the place— but it’s still comfortable. I’ll help you get acquainted with the hot mess known as reality TV.”

She reads the indecision in his eyes. She’s almost sure he will refuse, but to her surprise, he sits.

***

Steve doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t count passing out at five a.m. for two hours, waking to find a blanket draped over him. It’s a gesture made more out of thought than anything else, and one that he appreciates. Natasha’s gone out, leaving him a note that invites him to wander the facility but, ‘Please don’t leave, or I’ll have to hunt you down and drag you back on your ass.’ Not for the first time (and probably not the last), he can’t tell if she’s kidding or not.

So, he wanders. Goes to the front room and finds out that he can put in a request for reading materials; when the agent asks what he wants, he asks for her recommendations (they turn out to be romance novels, but he reads them anyway). He finds the kitchen and meets Victoria, a squat but friendly woman who shakes his hand vigorously and blushes when he thanks her for her cooking.

“Please,” she scoffs. “I’m getting paid a ton for this gig. I’m the one who should be thanking _you_.”

Natasha returns a few hours later and escorts him to his appointments: first an hour with the physician, who says his recovery is going better than expected, then another two with the psychiatrist. He almost wishes that Natasha was in the room for that one, even though it’s supposed to be confidential. Something about her silent presence is comforting to him, and some of the questions that Dr. Hartman prods him with make him shift in his chair.

Does he miss anyone? Everyone, he admits after a moment (but mostly Peggy and Bucky). Has he felt at all like he’s been suffocating at any point, or has he started shaking? He eventually says that yes, he did feel like that yesterday, but he managed to keep it under control. After some prodding, he also adds that he doesn’t think it’s really sunk in yet, that he’s here and it’s not just a vacation to the future. The psychiatrist nods and makes a note on the clipboard.

There’s apparently a gym in the basement, and it’s there that he spends his hours before dinner. It’s decorated in the same way the rest of the building is: with bare blue walls and no personal effects, but there’s equipment and punching bags (he breaks three). There’s also a sparring ring, but there isn’t exactly a partner he can spar with, so he avoids it for now.

The end of the day is dinner with Natasha, trying to sleep while Natasha hides in her room, and then admitting defeat and watching TV with her until he passes out.

It goes like that for a few weeks, until the psychiatrist declares that he’s well enough to venture out into the outside world.

(There’s one night that he and Natasha don’t mention, by silent agreement. One where he wears himself out in the gym enough that he succeeds in falling asleep at midnight instead of five a.m., and wakes up only thirty minutes later gasping and sweating. He doesn’t know where he is, and he calls out for Peggy and Bucky and his mother, until someone lays a cool hand on his brow. It calms him just enough that he recognizes Natasha, sitting on the edge of his bed, her face tight. She waits with him until his breathing eases back to normal, and then they go into the sitting room and drown in the inanity of reality TV.)

Natasha still chaperones his daily wanderings of New York City, but it definitely helps to be away from the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. He can breathe easier when he isn’t cooped up, and her presence doesn’t press down on him like the psychiatrist’s or Fury’s, when the man comes on one of his rare visits. Food in general gets better, as he’s no longer required to stick to the ‘recovery stuff’, as Natasha puts it. He almost misses it when she first forces him to go to McDonald’s, though. The fries are good, but his chicken sandwich is suspicious.

“Okay, you’ve fulfilled your fast food requirement,” Natasha says, stealing one of his fries and dipping it in her milkshake. “I’m trying to think of other ‘must-dos’.”

“Movie?” he suggests. He’s been curious about modern day cinema for a while now.

“Good one. Maybe I can find something in 3D; that’ll really blow your mind.” She slurps obnoxiously. “You’ve already seen Central Park… I made you get Starbucks the other day…”

Steve hadn’t minded that visit so much.

“It’s a shame pumpkin spice lattes aren’t in season right now,” Natasha muses. “I know you’re already reading a book a day, pretty much. We’re in the process of covering TV. Oh wow, I just remembered— I think S.H.I.E.L.D.’s issuing you a laptop and phone when you move into a more private place, so you’ll have to be taught about the Internet and Wi-Fi. It’ll make things easier when you want to know more about world history and stuff.”

Steve’s heard the term ‘Internet’ before. Natasha’s tried to explain it to him: how it’s a database of information, but not a physical one. She gave up after ten minutes of trying, though, saying it was better to just show him. Which doesn’t explain why she refuses to just show him her own laptop— she’s a bit like a parent gleefully holding a Christmas parent over their child’s head.

Most of what he’s learned about history has been from Natasha herself. When he asks a question, she answers in intimate detail, almost like she was at the event she’s describing. So far, he knows that the US won World War II, and that since then the Cold War has happened (“That’s a bit more complicated,” Natasha admits), as well as some other, smaller wars, and that the main concern in world security right now is terrorists.

The day after the McDonald’s trip, he asks to visit Ground Zero. He pays silent respect to all those who perished. He knows the horrors of war, but there’s something even more unnerving thinking about carnage here, in New York City (his home, even if it feels like it isn’t). He doesn’t let himself dwell on it for very long, and he doesn’t mention it to his therapist.

All the while, he tries to gauge Natasha, and feels like he fails.

For one thing, it’s very clear that Natasha is a field agent. He’s observant enough to recognize that the way she moves is deliberately sedate, but that she is coiled like a snake, ready to strike out at any moment. She’s surprisingly worldly for a super spy, and likes to make bad jokes (at his expense more often than not). She seems able to predict what he’s going to say before he does, but at other times— usually when he’s being kind— she’ll look surprised. She doesn’t offer any information on her past, and he doesn’t ask, other than the one time he mentioned his mother.

“I didn’t have one,” is her response, when he asks her about his. She doesn’t seem to mind hearing about Sarah Rogers, though.

Steve wanders down to the gym during the time when he’s usually drooling on the couch, having fallen asleep a little earlier, but not waking up from a nightmare this time. When he gets there, however, it’s to find it already occupied by— well, in his head he’s started dubbing her his ‘roommate’. She’s not really a friend, not quite. She’ll joke and tease and, sure, and she’s been very helpful, but she still manages to keep a kind of distance between the two of them.

Natasha is running through some kind of sequence in the sparring ring, so quickly that he almost can’t follow her movements. There are twists, backflips, quick punches and kicks. She never stays in one place, gracefully flowing through her movements, like a dancer. Eventually she stops, halting mid-kick, before stepping out of the ring and making her way over to where a water bottle sits, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Hey,” she says. “You’re usually asleep by now. Everything okay?”

“Oh— yeah,” he says. “I fell asleep earlier than usual. I can go, if you want.”

“Up to you,” she replies. “They’ve restocked your punching bags, if you want a go at those. Or…”

Steve has an inkling of what she’s about to say. Natasha is a fighter— that much is clear. Maybe it always has been. A _good_ fighter, too. She has to be, if she’s normally a field agent. It makes sense that she would come down here to exercise while he’s sleeping, when she’s unlikely to be disturbed, but maybe she needs…

“You could show me what you’ve got.”

…a sparring partner.

Steve has some hand-to-hand experience from the training he got while he was in the army. He can certainly hold his own against most opponents, thanks to the serum. Sparring with Natasha, however… something tells him that it’ll be different. Still, he hasn’t sparred since he woke up. Maybe it’ll do him some good. He’s been getting tired of punching bags, anyway.

“Okay,” he agrees.

He steps into the ring, and for a brief second he can’t stop himself from noticing the way her yoga pants cling to her skin, or the fact that the only thing she has on top is a sports bra. He’s not totally shocked by her state of undress, considering his time spent with the USO girls, and he noticed early on that Natasha’s a beautiful woman, but for some reason this seems more… real, than before.

She notices his scrutiny, of course, and she looks a little amused, but doesn’t say anything other than, “You ready, Cap?”

It’s the first time she’s called him something other than ‘Captain’, or ‘Rogers’.

He nods again.

The second he does so, she all but throws herself at him. She ducks beneath his reactive punch and sweeps his legs out from under him, rolling on top of him and getting her forearm on his throat.

“Well, that’s a yield,” she says, sounding disappointed. She lets him up, offering him a hand. Admittedly, he was not prepared for that, but it has given him something to expect from her: that she will not hesitate, and that she will go all out at all times. He wonders who taught her to fight that way, because it seems like a method that would exhaust someone very quickly.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go again.”

And they continue on this way, for— hours, he eventually realizes. Their bouts become more extensive as time passes, as she’s worn down and he learns more about the way she moves. But nothing he does (not even the little creative twists he’s starting to add) can get the best of her, and every match ends with the same way: her on top of him, in some sort of kill position. She doesn’t say anything about his repeated requests to fight, and her relentlessness remains constant through every match.

It’s good. There isn’t anything but adrenaline, and sweat, and harsh breathing from the both of them. It drives away the murkier thoughts that have bothered him lately.

Eventually they both agree on breakfast. Natasha takes him out to a little diner, where he eat two stacks of pancakes and watches (in disbelief) as Natasha eats almost as much.

“Don’t judge me, Rogers,” she says, jabbing her fork at him. “I get hungry after a workout.”

They’ve got some bruises, but their workout clothes are still on, so they don’t get too many odd looks from other customers. Natasha proclaims that she’s in the mood for a catnap, so they head back to the facility after that. Honestly, he didn’t know if she even slept, but she heads straight for her room, and the machine she calls a laptop is still sitting on the steel coffee table, so it’s not an excuse to shut herself away and use it.

That day, the psychiatrist tells him that he’ll be moved to a S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue apartment in a few days. His own space— he can decorate it any way he likes, and he won’t have to put up with a roommate any longer. Steve doesn’t really have a reaction to that. He’ll feel a little more human in a place that doesn’t look like a hospital, but all the same—

“Agent Romanoff recommended it,” Dr. Hartman adds. He’s looking at Steve very carefully now, like he’s expecting some kind of reaction. Steve doesn’t give him a visible one. He hides his disappointment well.

He’s not sure what he expects from Natasha when he confronts her about it, later on. She blinks at him when he mentions what the psychiatrist told him, looking down at the whole wheat pasta that Victoria made for them. Her soft chuckle is the last thing he wants to hear.

“Steve,” and it’s the first time she says his name. “You’ve made more progress than anyone expected you to. But the next step, after learning how to live in the kind of cutthroat world that the 21st century provides, is learning how to live in it on your own.”

She deliberately avoids saying the word ‘alone’, but it’s clearly implied.

“Is that how you live?” he asks her, and just like that, he’s lost her. She hides behind the placid expression that means she’s finished with the conversation.

Fury’s there for the goodbye between the two of them (“Agent Romanoff is returning to active duty today”), but he doesn’t comment on it. Natasha gives him a little smirk that says nothing and everything about her, and promises to meet up with him sometime for another sparring session. “I’m always in the mood for a challenge, Cap.”

It’s something. Not much, but something. He shakes her hand, resisting the urge to pull her in for a hug— he has no idea how she would react to that— and just like that, she turns around and is out the door. Just like that, he’s driven by a S.H.I.E.L.D. car to a nice little apartment block, still in New York, and is left in a generic living space with only his own breathing for background noise. This, too, is something.

Not much. Not what he wants, but he has to start somewhere.

***

It’s for the best. Cut him off before he becomes too dependent. She’s been hoping to do it before it hurts him, but it appears she’s underestimated how quickly he’ll get attached. There’s a twinge of regret that only bothers her for a moment before it’s crushed by her newfound resolve. Meeting and getting to know Captain America has only made her more determined to work on paying off her own debts.

Natasha’s first field assignment in two months doesn’t start for another five hours, so she takes the time to head to the nursing home.

“Oh, you always look ridiculous in civilian clothing.”

Natasha laughs warmly. “Says you. I look fabulous in everything— don’t even try to deny it.”

Peggy smiles at her. Natasha silently thanks whatever religious entity might be out there that she’s lucid today. Had the nurses told her otherwise, she would have turned around and left— and it’s bad enough that she’s been avoiding this visit ever since Rogers woke up. She sits on the edge of the bed, not resisting when Peggy reaches over and grasps her hand in a grip that always surprises her with its firmness.

“You really ought to find yourself a nice boy, one of these days. Or girl.”

Natasha makes a face because yeah, like _that_ would happen. “Younger you would slap yourself right now.”

“Except I’m old, and sentimental, and sappy.” Peggy sighs, and sometimes Natasha hates that Peggy has always been able to see straight to her true self— the one she keeps trapped under so many layers. “My darling, the world has been cruel to you, when it allowed me to find love and a family. I understand why you think you can’t have it, but I know you want it.”

“We all want it,” Natasha says. She thinks about everyone she knows who will never cross the line to get it— Clint, Maria, Nick. Clint, who she saved years ago. Maria, who looked at Natasha and smiled instead of flinching. Nick, who was the first person besides Peggy to return her glare full force, instead of ducking beneath it. “It’s not that easy. Don’t pretend that it is. That’s not what I come here for.”

It’s harsh, but Peggy has never wanted anyone to be soft with her.

“Duly noted, Agent.” Her voice is as dry as sandpaper. “You come here for my wit, and to complain about Nick. How is he?”

“He’s still trying to get his face stuck in angry badger mode. By the way, I’m not on probation anymore. Not that it was the worst punishment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Oh?”

Natasha freezes like a deer in the headlights. She’s not ready. Oh god, she’s not ready. She came here with a silent promise to _be honest, for once in your fucking life_ , but the words get stuck in her throat. She doesn’t want to see it, she realizes. She doesn’t want to see the look on Peggy’s face when she tells her that Captain America is back, and alive and well, and that it’s because of the closeness between herself and the former director that she was chosen to help rehabilitate him in the first place.

She doesn’t want to admit that it was her decision not to alert Peggy about his return the moment the call came in. At first it was simple— he might not have made it— but later on it was more about being so, so afraid to hurt someone again. Peggy looks at her now, and she realizes that she might not get another chance to say this. Even if it means she’s witness to the simultaneous joy and heartbreak in Peggy’s eyes—

“So when is Steve going to visit?”

Natasha’s excellent at covering her surprise, but Peggy has a knowing glint in her eye. “I don’t know. We’ve just given him your file, so soon, I’d think.”

Peggy chuckles, and answers Natasha’s unasked question. “Nick visits too, you know. Walked straight in here, said, ‘Steve Rogers is alive’. That man has always been terrible at social interactions. He hides it by being constantly grumpy.”

Natasha’s as good at this game as Peggy is. She waits, and is inwardly smug because Nick can complain all he wants, but he took the same approach with Peggy that she did with Steve.

“I would at least like to see him once, before I kick the bucket,” Peggy admits. “Preferably when I’m not… having an episode.”

Natasha sits there and holds Peggy Carter’s hand. She does not think about how they are two women who have seen the same things, who have been through hell and back together. She does not think about how she is as ancient as the woman in the bed, but here she sits, face smooth. She does not think about how others like Peggy will waste away to dust while she stands tall, taking pieces of her heart with them. She does not think about one particular day over fifty years ago. She does not think about sitting on the edge of Steve’s bed while he cries out like a child.

She does not think about these things, but she feels them, like a hot dagger burning in her gut. The dagger does not leave when she leaves the nursing home, after staying Peggy until the other woman sleeps. The dagger is just there— has always been there, since she woke up one morning and realized she could think for herself.

“I’m old,” she says to Clint when she calls him later on.

“Have you started keeping five cats around you at all times and do you complain about it being cold?”

Natasha calls him a few choice names in Russian, which only makes him laugh.

“Well, you look fantastic for a lady over sixty. Or is it seventy?”

Natasha has no idea. But she doesn’t say that. She just listens while Clint rambles on in her ear, needing to not be alone in the long hours before she leaves for her mission. He understands, and for that she’s grateful.

***

A year passes in monotony. Natasha doesn’t contact him. He divides his time between workouts and occasionally wandering the city in anonymity. He tries everything he can to not let himself dwell on the past, but invariably it catches up with him when he least expects it— in coffee shops, on morning runs. He tries to work up the courage to visit Peggy when he learns where she is (he can’t bear to read the file past that point. It’s selfish and stupid, but he doesn’t want to read about the life she had without him).

Then Loki happens.

He steps off of a quinjet and finds himself face-to-face with Natasha.

Her face is back to that placid mask, but there’s a kind of smugness radiating from her as she walks along the deck with him; it sort of pisses him off. She doesn’t mention the fact that he’s never bothered to call her about sparring, or that she never mysteriously turned up in the local gym for a session (she could have, if she had really wanted to). She is as distant as ever, and she treats Bruce Banner the same way.

He doesn’t really have a response to any of it.

Then everything falls to pieces, and they’re fighting an alien army together in the middle of Manhattan, and for the first time she pulls of her mask completely. Steve, caught up in the battle himself, doesn’t really notice it until he lands in a crouch before her and she swings around, aiming a Chitauri weapon at him.

There’s a snarl on her face, her eyes alight with both fear and excitement. A hunter, maybe, or a wounded, cornered animal. Her lip is bloodied. There are smudges all over her face. Her eyes, though… those are alive. More alive than he’s ever seen them, at any rate. Another Chitauri lands near them, and without warning she whirls and impales it on the weapon, before letting out a yell and flinging it bodily into one of its friends.

He’s not sure what it was he saw, in that moment. But it’s refreshing, after her too-casual attitude with him.

Steve also notices, later on, that Natasha is the only one Loki looks at with both hatred and fear.

New York is something else, and it changes all of them. Sure, they go their separate ways, but they all have means of keeping an eye on one another. Steve rides aimlessly through the Midwest on his motorcycle— walks up and down Michigan Avenue a few times, visits the Arch, that sort of thing— before he turns back around and finally musters enough willpower to visit Peggy at the nursing home where she’s presumably living these days. He doesn’t know how to feel about the way her eyes light up when she sees him, or the way she drinks him in (he’s doing the same to her), or how she still laughs the same way.

It ends with her forgetting what year it is, and Steve feels something crack near his sternum.

He ends up having to hide in the bathroom to compose himself, because this is the first thing to really pierce him to his core since he woke up from the ice. When he exits the front of the building, he’s not even surprised to find Agent Romanoff standing there.

“Hi,” she says. It’s the same ‘hi’ from the helicarrier. “Do you wanna have a job?”

Steve stares at her. Okay. He’ll give in, and play their game of pretending to not have known each other at all before New York.

“Yeah, that would probably be good,” he admits.

And just like that, he’s working for S.H.I.E.LD.

It’s not glamorous. It sure as hell isn’t the army. They keep telling him that he’s helping people with what he’s doing, but they don’t tell him much else. Natasha doesn’t tell him anything at all, which is a little better. Instead, she starts trying to set him up, and gives him constant recommendations on catching up in the 21st century. The best day is the one where she shows up in yet another new apartment (DC isn’t New York, but he likes the Mall) with about five different kinds of takeout, an apology written all over her face, and says, “I’m behind on the Amazing Race. Help me catch up?”

He lets her in, because what else can he do?

“It’s a bit about mending the rift, since we’re partners now,” she admits later. “But I… do want us to be acquaintances, at least. Before New York, I honestly didn’t expect us to see each other again.”

Steve nods. It’s a reasonable explanation. She relaxes a bit and starts shoveling fried rice in her mouth at top speed. God, she really has zero table manners.

 _I missed you,_ he doesn’t say. He doesn’t tell her that she’s the one real connection he’s built in this world, the one thing that seems real to him. Something larger than life, in a way that Peggy and Bucky both had been in the past. He does, however, very carefully not react when she sits closer to him than is strictly necessary, her thigh pressed against his. Knowing Natasha it’s on purpose, but she does a damn good job of making it seem unconscious.

It’s not the same, not really. This time, he doesn’t need to stay up until some ungodly hour before he passes out— he goes to bed at one, and she sees herself out. As he lies there, he thinks about how (even though he didn’t like it), she was right about learning to live on his own. He wouldn’t say he’s happy, but he’s at least trying to carve out something of his own in this time and place. Even if he won’t go on the dates she keeps offering to set up.

More time passes. It all seems too fast and too slow at the same time. He and Natasha have a few brushes with death and come out the other side laughing more than they should be. He talks to Barton a few a times over the phone, and surprises himself by becoming pretty damn close to the other man, even though they rarely talk face-to-face. He visits Peggy when he can, braving the bad days and grateful for the good. And all the while he’s once again faced with the challenge of knowing Natasha, and he’s just as clueless as he was before.

He makes a watercolor painting of her once, musing to himself that she keeps her hair such a noticeable color because it’s her statement to the world: that she will not bow to anyone else’s whim, that she is the only one who controls her own destiny. He’s heard the rumors at S.H.I.E.L.D.— about her real age, about where she came from, about her prowess in the field and how no one has ever been able to match her. When he finishes the painting, he hangs it up to dry and just sort of… leaves it there.

Natasha sees it with no discernable reaction the next time she pops over with an offering of food, but the next day she comes into work with her hair straightened. He’s not sure what to make of that.

Of all the things in his life, Steve thinks he looks forward to their sparring matches the most.

It’s the closest he can get to his encounter with her during the Battle of New York. She’s danger incarnate, and he’s drawn to it shamelessly. It’s probably stupid. But he does need to keep practicing, and she’s always willing to spar, so he keeps going back for more. They mostly fight to a draw these days, because he’s picked up on more of her style that she’s expected, and he even manages to catch her off-guard a few times. But mostly, it’s because there’s something in her when she fights that he doesn’t normally see— something that looks at him through her, and it burns him.

(Steve is well aware of his attraction to Natasha by now. Only an idiot wouldn’t call her beautiful, and the way she moves is more than a little distracting, but it’s… more, for him. Maybe it’s the way she completely owns herself, or the way she either chooses to command a room when she enters it or to be completely unnoticed. She prefers unnoticed, but the one time she doesn’t, all conversation ceases, and he’s damn impressed. He’s not good at reading her, but he thinks it’s not entirely one-sided, either. She usually tries to maintain her distance with him, but sometimes she’ll face him during a sparring session and the way her eyes shift when she looks at him is not entirely voluntary.)

Of course, it all comes to a head when Hydra returns, and S.H.I.E.L.D. falls.

It’s only when it crumbles that he realizes just how much their relationship was built on a foundation that didn’t exist.

***

No. _No._

She isn’t standing for this. This…bullshit.

“You owed me,” she snarls lowly. “I handed over my soul to you the day you took over for Peggy. I chose to let you take the reins, because Peggy thought it was best, and I would never turn against her. You _know_ that. You’re not a fool. You were the one she chose, and yeah, it was a good choice at the time, but this? You owe me, Nick.”

He eyes her (ha) steadily.

Natasha wants to scream. She knows what it means— what he’s implying.

“You know why I couldn’t,” he tells her. “That’s why you’re going to go in there and lay all of your deeds bare for the world to see. So you can prove to yourself that I was wrong about you, Natasha. You understand me?”

She does, and she hates it.

“I wasn’t part of Operation Paperclip,” she says, voice strangled.

“No, you were part of the Black Widow project,” he counters. “And even if you weren’t doing it consciously, there was always the chance that you were a sleeper. A lynchpin in Hydra’s plan. Maybe you were their ace in the hole all along, and then where would Margaret Carter’s legacy be? Betrayed by one of her closest friends? I wasn’t going to let you become that.”

“You don’t get to make it look like you were protecting me,” Natasha replies.

“Peggy didn’t know.” His voice softens. “Peggy never suspected you. She never would have. That’s why I had to.”

She recalls Fury’s description of Pierce’s refusal of the Nobel Peace Prize. _It’s stuff like this that gives me trust issues._

“If you think Peggy never considered this, or refused to consider this, then you’re a dumbass,” she says lowly. She twists her wrist a little bit, to show him a raised lump in her skin. Shock appears on Fury’s face. “She and I discussed it before you were even born, Nick. I don’t know who has the trigger right now— just that it’s someone close to me, and someone that Peggy trusts.”

The first part is a lie. Natasha notices how Sharon Carter eyes her every time they’re in the same room.

Nick nods at her wrist. “That’d kill you?”

“It would, if there was ever a reason for it to be triggered. There hasn’t been yet.”

They stand there, regarding one another, both betrayed in equal measure. They’re both people that don’t trust anyone, so it should really come as no surprise that Fury faked his own death and didn’t alert Natasha. Likewise, it shouldn’t come as any surprise that Natasha had a failsafe built into her decades ago, in the event that her handlers from the Red Room somehow took her back.

Beneath everything else, however, they’re human beings. Some part of them wants to believe.

Fury turns around and limps back down the stairs after another pause, leaving her alone with building schematics and her own notes. She hefts the face mesh in distaste— she doesn’t like these things, but she can’t do one of her usual improvised, blend-in disguises. This needs to be deliberate. This needs to be flawless.

She reviews the councilwoman’s habits and speech patterns for what feels like the fifth time before she finally notices that, once again, she has company. Huh. Maybe Steve’s getting the habit of this whole ‘spying’ thing. Right when they were about to tear the organization they worked for, of course.

“How’s the shoulder?” he asks.

Natasha rotates it. She deliberately does not wince.

“Fine.”

Steve snorts. “Doubt it,” he grumbles, but of all the people she knows, he gets that she _needs_ to do this. He moves forward, hands in his pockets, and sits down in the seat that Nick vacated earlier. He stares at her while she works, waiting for her to make eye contact with him, and she wonders when he started to use her own interrogation tactics against her.

Sam’s place, probably.

“I trusted Nick,” is all she discloses.

Steve nods, like he understands. Like he understands what it was like to watch Nick grow, to watch him recover from the incident that cost him his eye. To watch their world destroy him— Natasha has never pitied him, not after her own experiences and many long talks with Peggy— and then remake him. To tell him, on the day that Peggy announced her retirement, that she was loyal to him, and see gratitude for once (she never did again). Natasha trusted him because she had deluded herself into believing that he trusted her.

(She should have known better, after the eye. He wouldn’t look at anyone for weeks.)

It almost makes her angry, the way Steve is looking at her. But she’s suddenly too tired to be angry. Besides, he has his own existential crisis right now.

“In case you can’t get through to him,” she says lightly, “do you have a plan for killing him?”

Steve starts a little at her question. She immediately sees the way he has to tamp down an angry reaction to her words, and feels a brief moment of triumph. Natasha starts organizing all of the paper’s she’s gone through, tucking them into a file to give to Hill before she tries to sleep tonight. The face mesh remains on the table.

“I won’t have to kill him.”

Natasha stands, but she doesn’t move. Steve’s face is half-hidden due to the poor lighting in her little area in the bunker. She can read the tension in his arms and shoulders easily enough, though.

“’Always a way out’,” she says. “’You’re not the type to make the sacrifice play. To lay down on the wire and let the other guy walk over you.’”

“That’s different. This isn’t my life, it’s his.”

“This is your life, Rogers,” Natasha folds her arms, taking care not to crush the folder. “That’s exactly what this is about. He’s the only thing besides Margaret Carter—“

“Wait— you acted like you didn’t know who she—“

Natasha ignores his interruption. “— that you have left of your old life. And you’re desperate to cling to it. It’s like you’d rather die than continue to live in the here and now. Maybe you would— I don’t pretend to know what’s going on in your head, because I only do that with my targets— but I don’t think so. I think you’d rather find your place in the world, because I think it’s becoming clear to you that it’s out there somewhere, even though it’s not with S.H.I.E.L.D. So I’ll ask you again: do you have a plan for killing Bucky?”

Natasha uses that name because she knows it’ll hurt. Because she needs to make him see.

“ _You_ always need plans.” Now Steve sounds pissed. “Some of us are willing to gamble. He’s my friend, Natasha. I’m not going to hurt him, and I know I can convince him not to hurt me.”

 _He’s going to hurt you,_ Natasha thinks, closing her eyes. _Oh, he may not kill you, but he’ll hurt you before it’s over._

A friend. How do you love someone so much that you would die for them, even if it’s by their hand?

Natasha has been having dreams, recently. Ones where she’s facing off against the Winter Soldier on the causeway again, but it’s not the Winter Soldier— it’s Steve, and when he makes the shot that hits her shoulder and corners her by a car, there’s no one to come and help her. So she calls his name, something which doesn’t occur to her earlier in the dream, right as he fires, and she holds off on waking up long enough to see the horror in his eyes.

“If you die,” she says to Steve, “Hydra will have won. Even if those helicarriers destroy each other.”

“If I don’t try,” he counters, “then they’ll have won anyway.”

Her arguments have run dry. Natasha stares at him with her chin raised high, engaged in the kind of stare-down that they have whenever they disagree on mission tactics. Steve never wavered during any of those, and he’s clearly not about to waver now. But something in his expression changes as he watches her, and he stands up too, and moves around to her side of the table.

He doesn’t touch her. “Hey,” he says. “I’m not gonna die, okay? Nat?”

Distantly, Natasha thinks, _He didn’t make me say it._

She wants to tell him everything. She wants to tell him about how Fury believed she was best qualified to help him because Peggy broke down one cold winter in New York and told her everything about him. She wants to say that meeting him was a bit strange for her— that part of her was fascinated by the man who used to hold Peggy Carter’s heart, and the other part was angry. She wants to tell him that are two reasons why cohabitation after a traumatic experience is dangerous, not just one. She wants to say that she was on probation after hauling Clint’s ass out of Australia, the both of them barely alive, and that in getting him out she was disobeying orders.

She wants to tell him that the thought of being responsible for another human being terrified her. It still does.

Steve doesn’t give her the chance. He wraps his arms around her, and she lets him.

***

He is alive, thank you very much.

Steve doesn’t resist when Natasha punches him in the arm at the cemetery. She gives him the smirk, the one that says that she’s got a plan now— which is good, because her face had been completely blank when she visited him in the hospital. He grins back at her, hearing Sam move away to give the two of them some space.

“So,” she says. “Fury offer you a job?”

“Yeah. It didn’t really have the same charm that your offer did, though.”

“Ah.” She holds out the file that he noticed her holding when he first saw her approaching. “I don’t have many friends left in Kiev, but Maria helped me track it down. It’s not a light read, but it might help you understand what he’s thinking right now.”

“Thanks.”

Natasha seems to flounder for a moment, looking uncertain. Her features smooth over as she looks at him. He thinks about the roller coaster they’ve been on together for the past few days, and how it seems like the walls around her were blown open (though whether that was with her permission or not, he’s not sure). In the past few days, he’s understood more about her than he has in the past two years. The way she’s looking at him now—

“This doesn’t have to be an end,” he hears himself saying. “Not like last time. You should, y’know— call once in a while. If you can.”

Natasha laughs. He thinks it’s real. “So we can talk? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Rogers, but in spite of being a super spy, I’m not that great at the whole talking thing.”

“Talk, whatever. It’d be nice to hear from you, all the same.”

She regards him with one raised eyebrow.

“Okay,” she says. “Just— if you ever need to go to ground, please don’t ever use the hipster disguise again.”

Now it’s Steve’s turn to laugh. “I solemnly swear.”

It’s a good kind of ending. It’s the kind that doubles as a beginning, too. At least, he thinks so.

***

They’ve only parted for a few days when she gets a message from Steve, asking her to meet him in a little café somewhere in San Francisco.

 _What the hell are you doing in San Francisco?_ she texts back. He doesn’t answer.

He’s seated at a table already when she arrives. There’s no sign of Sam anywhere, but Natasha has a feeling that he’s nearby. Steve’s face is made of stone, in the kind of way that makes Natasha feel like a kid who’s just gotten in trouble with their teacher. She sits down across from him and makes the mistake of looking down at— oh.

Photographs. A whole pile. And part of her is betrayed, because she knows Fury is somehow responsible this. Another part, though…

“You know, I gotta admit,” Steve says. “For a while there, I thought I knew you.”

Natasha reaches. Picks them up. Goes through them one by one. Photos of her after S.H.I.E.L.D. recovered her from the wreckage of a ship in the Atlantic, with bruises on both eyes. Photos of her chained to a chair in an interrogation room, with Peggy Carter sitting in another chair across from her. She doesn’t really remember those days; most of the details that she’s aware of were told to her later by Peggy herself. Later on, a photo from that day— the day she woke up for the first time in her life. One where she stares straight at the camera and something more stares back.

There are others, of course. Her and Peggy at some event or other, with her just to the side of Peggy. Her and Peggy in the mess hall at three in the morning, laughing together. Her pulling Peggy away from the sights of a crazed sniper. Her and Peggy. Her and Peggy. Her and Peggy when Fury was appointed the next Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Her, signing over her allegiance to Fury instead. But still, more of her and Peggy.

“I’m not mad, exactly,” Steve admits, but he’s too calm. “It was my fault, for not reading her file completely when I first got it. I just wanted to know where she was; I didn’t really care about anything else. But then I read Bucky’s file, and I started to wonder how you knew where to look for it, and when I found that out, I got curious. When I found the first picture from your file dump, I went back to her file.”

Natasha’s only half listening. She’s stopped at a picture of Peggy, stooping to speak to one of her children. But it’s not Peggy’s face she’s looking at— it’s her own. God, has Steve noticed?

“Bucky trained you,” Steve says. His voice is hoarse. “Peggy saved you. All that time I was wondering why they chose you to be with me when I woke up. I should’ve realized that the answer was a little more complicated than you being on probation.”

Natasha doesn’t miss his wording. Finally, she looks up at him. He stands automatically when his name is called by the barista, and he brings her back a vanilla iced coffee, which he’s learned is her preference while they worked together for S.H.I.E.L.D. Natasha looks at it but doesn’t drink it, suddenly lacking any thirst whatsoever. She looks down at the photos again, sees the variation in the time stamps, and the dagger in her gut burns a little hotter.

_You just can’t admit it Romanoff. That you’re lonely and old and pathetic. My god. Might as well get five cats._

“Steve,” she says at last. Shit, her voice is hoarser than his is. “You knew me without any of this.”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just— you had the measure of me right from the beginning, didn’t you? Bucky probably never mentioned me, but I’m betting Peggy did. You probably knew plenty about me. That first sparring match— I never stood a chance in hell, did I? You had me down to a T right there. It was easy for you, to just… take me apart. You held all the power.”

“I didn’t use it,” Natasha answers. “I never would. I will die before I cross that line.”

They share a painful stare. Softly, she adds, “If I ever do, I will be the first to put a bullet in my mouth. Don’t worry, there isn’t some other part of me that will spit it out.”

But that only seems to make it worse. Steve laughs and says, “I really don’t know you. At all.”

He gets up after that. He leaves the photos with her. Slowly, Natasha digs through them until she finds one at the bottom: one of a fourteen year old girl with red hair, sparring with the Winter Soldier. She thinks about those dark days that are an infinity of years away now, but at night are still fresh enough to terrify her. She thinks about the first time Peggy ever hugged her— full-bodied and warm, and how she’d been so shocked that her arms had hung limply at her sides. Eventually she learned how to return hugs, and Peggy was more proud of that than she was of all of Natasha’s scores in the shooting range.

Natasha’s a bit more like Nick that she is like Peggy. She’s shit at social interactions. But she knows that she can’t just… let Steve _leave_ like this, not when she has nothing else. Peggy is getting worse every day that Natasha sees her. Clint has been AWOL since Hydra. Hill is doing something useful, but half of the world is out for Natasha’s blood, and she would be less than pleased to see the Black Widow right now. So she desperately, like a child, does not want to lose Steve at this moment.

She finds his hotel. Knocks on his door. Shoves him back into the room when he opens it, not looking surprised, and tackles him to the ground. He only resists half-heartedly, like he has expected this from her all along. She hovers above him, not knowing what to do next. She has his attention. How does she use it?

“You like to think that whatever’s underneath the masks isn’t human,” he says. “That’s the most human thing about you.”

There’s something in his voice— a mixture of relief and realization that almost makes her gasp. It confirms that yes, he does know her.

_He knows her._

She leans down and kisses him.

The thing is, Natasha communicates through physicality. It’s the one thing about her that will never lie. It’s why she feels the most alive while fighting, and why he asks to spar with her so much. It’s probably why she likes to spar with him, in return. He actually wants to see her like this, when she’s unreserved enough that her more primal side steps forward.

It’s completely the wrong thing to do, she knows. A smarter person would walk away from him for now, would give themselves time to figure out who they really were without S.H.I.E.L.D. and a thousand identities to hide behind. Neither of them are rational, though, and she’s been fully aware that she’s wanted this since his talk with her while they were at Sam’s place. She’s been subconsciously aware of it since they sparred for the first time.

One of Steve’s large hands wraps around the small of her back, holding her in place. She’s mildly surprised to find that he’s as fervent as she is, and she realizes that he understands what she’s trying to say, with this. It’s terrifying, but exhilarating, and she melds herself to him.

Later (they move to the bed after round one, because he complains about rug burns), they’re lying on their sides, just staring at each other. They’ve given up on words. Or maybe they’ve just realized that words aren’t really for them. This is the longest Natasha’s gone without breaking a gaze, and it’s kind of… nice. To be able to look at someone this way. It’s also making heal pool in her center again, but that’s not the point.

“I was 31,” she admits, voice low. “Peggy stepped out of her dressing room wearing a suit, and one of those amazing hats she always has— you probably saw them, she’s got great taste in hats— and she was wearing that red lipstick of hers. I was pretty much a goner.”

“…oh.” He swallows, as what she’s saying sinks in. _“Oh.”_

“Yeah.

“She knew,” Natasha continues. “At least, I think she did. She never said it out loud. I always knew she didn’t feel the same. Besides which, I was pretty much set on not getting involved in…”

“Love?”

And then there’s _that_ word. But all Natasha can say is, “Yeah.”

He smiles. “She’s really something.”

They fall silent again, but at some point, Steve seems to get everything he needs from her, and moves closer to wrap an arm around her waist. She, in turn, tangles their legs together. She doesn’t bother pulling a blanket over the two of them because Steve’s elevated body temperature is more than enough warmth, and she falls asleep with this new, budding _something_ cradled in her chest.

***

So they’ve started over. It’s harder than it sounds.

For one thing, Steve doesn’t see her for another year after that. She struggles to tell him that they need to spend time apart, to try to piece themselves back together, before they can make an honest, genuine attempt at this. By now he knows that verbal communication is not their forte, but her faint trembling while she speaks explains her point for him.

In the meantime, he looks for Bucky and doesn’t find him. His consolation is that Hydra doesn’t seem to find him either, so at least wherever he is, he’s probably safe. He and Sam grow closer. He keeps up his phone calls to Clint. Fury gets in touch with him and Sam a few times to ask for a favor against Hydra, which he obliges because he has plenty of repressed rage at Hydra that he needs to vent. Once in a while, he will get a vague phone call from Tony, who sounds more and more paranoid as the months go by.

He hears about something that goes down in Europe, and catches a flash of red hair on the news, but there is nothing otherwise, so he relaxes. A few weeks later there’s something about five former Russian officials getting arrested. When he asks Clint about it, the archer only laughs.

Then there comes a day when he’s in New York (he’s found himself staying at Stark Tower these days, with mostly Bruce for company), and he’s running through Central Park. He takes a break to stretch when Natasha plops herself on the grass in front of him.

Her hair is wavy again, and shorter. It’s the first thing he notices. The second is the scar that runs from her ear to the point of her chin. He can’t seem to stop himself from reaching out and tracing it with his thumb, feeling the ridges on his skin, before he meets her eyes. She closes them briefly at his touch, before the smallest of smiles appears on her face.

“Souvenir,” she says. “From Russia with love, and all that.”

“Doing what?” he asks. He’s not expecting a straight answer, but she gives the next closest thing.

“Picking up a stray. He tried to bite me a few times, but eh. He was fluffy enough that I kept him.”

And that’s when Steve notices the other shadow, standing a few feet away from her.

***

“Of course,” Peggy breathes, and one of the most beautiful smiles that Natasha’s ever seen appears on her face. “It would be you two, wouldn’t it? The two people in my life who were most likely to give me a heart attack.”

Peggy’s old, but she can still read body language. She can still see the way they subconsciously angle themselves towards one another, whether it’s protectively or just because they instinctively gravitate towards one another. They separate in order to sit on opposite sides of Peggy, but Natasha still feels that pull. She wonders if she’ll ever be able to call it love— whatever’s between them.

She wonders if she cares what it’s called.

Peggy looks at Steve first. “Oh, you. You sure know how to pick them. I hope you know a little more about women now.”

“Nah,” he says.

“It’s fine,” Natasha adds. “I don’t know a whole lot about people in general, so. You know. That kind of makes up for it.”

Peggy turns a skeptical gaze on her. “Yes, you don’t really know a thing about women either, darling.”

Steve’s eyes meet hers, widening slightly. Natasha shakes her head at him. She will have time to break over this new knowledge later, but that time is not now. Peggy is looking at her intensely, and the look is almost too much, but Natasha holds her mask in place. There’s never been a need to remove it when she’s around Peggy.

“Look at you,” she says, glancing between them. “I wonder if it ever occurred to either of you that you’re exactly what the other person needed.”

“Thought crossed my mind,” Steve tells her. “Nat took a little longer, I think.”

“I made the first move, Rogers. Don’t you forget it.”

“Best just to let her have her way,” Peggy stage-whispers.

Natasha rolls her eyes, but the dagger in her gut is cooling a bit. Impulsively, she leans forward and kisses Peggy on the forehead. Steve does the same, a moment later.

They stay with Peggy for a long time, and somehow Peggy never loses track of where she is. Then they leave, and they go back to Stark Tower (where James and Clint are playing Mario Kart and howling like banshees while Stark offers snarky commentary and Bruce just shakes his head). They go to Natasha’s floor, and Steve immediately sets about boiling a pot of lemon tea while Natasha takes deep, steadying breaths. Peggy’s revelation shouldn’t make her world come crashing down again, but it does anyway.

She drinks the tea, but it just churns in her stomach. Steve offers to spar with her in the gym; she accepts.

It’s one of the only times he ever wins against her.

The exhaustion is enough that she breaks down in the shower, mourning something that she could have had, if she hadn’t been so blind once upon a time. Steve holds her all the way through it because they have a silent pact to never leave the other alone when they get like this. It’s one of the aspects of their relationship that took messy negotiation and a few fumbles before they worked out the kinks.

Natasha’s well aware that she sometimes deliberately makes it hard on both of them. After all, her greeting to him after a year had been, “Hi, I would still like to maybe date you or maybe be fuckbuddies or whatever it is we are, oh by the way here I got your best friend back.” It’s not exactly something normal people do in a relationship (not that either of them are normal). For their first actual date (which they went on after they’d already been sleeping together for a month), Steve took her to a little Indie film festival where she did actually have a lot of fun.

Now, they curl up together on the roof because she needs to be out in the open. Steve lets her pull his head onto her chest, because he’s figured out that her method of taking comfort involves wrapping herself around him like a spider monkey, even though her frame is tiny. They can’t really see the stars in the middle of New York City, but she enjoys the view anyway, and the sensation of night air on her skin.

“You going to be okay?” Steve finally asks her.

“Yeah. I think so.” Pause. “I’m old, Steve.”

He snorts. “Join the club.”

Natasha tightens her hold on him, and smiles. It’s a real one.


End file.
